by Lori Wilde
After almost a year of living footloose and fancy-free, he still wasn’t happy. Then, going through the boxes he’d never opened, he discovered reports Pete had been sending bi-annually that his wife must’ve filed away without showing him. He’d even been sending checks. Barely enough to pay for his gas here, but Clay saw it as a sign. A way to start over.
Hell, he’d practically forgotten he owned this place. When first notified of his inheritance by a lawyer and then by Pete, he’d told them to stick a for-sale sign up and sell off most of the stock to pay the back taxes. He kept Pete on the same salary his granddad had given him, and if any extra profits rolled in, they were used to repair the house in hopes of selling it. If not enough profits rolled in, the state could take the property back.
Pete had done exactly what Clay had suggested. He’d arrived to find an old, but not-falling-down farmhouse, a herd of eight cattle, and two old horses. The junkyard was the only thing Pete hadn’t kept up and running. But since the ranch barely made enough to support Pete, Clay decided to get the junkyard going again.
And for the first time in two years, Clay felt good about his life.
“I hear from a little birdy you got a job in a fancy detective agency in Atalla.”
“What little birdy?” Having lived in Houston for the last nine years, he’d forgotten about small-town gossip.
“Don’t matter none. What I wants to know is how you gonna run a ranch, and a junkyard, while you’re out playing Magnum PI? I thought your cop days were over.”
“Stop worrying Pete.” But Clay was worried, too. Not about juggling the jobs, but about making enough for him and Pete to both live on. He had a cushion. A ten-thousand-dollar one. But that could disappear quickly. Especially when taxes were due in a few months.
“It’s part-time, sort of as needed, and the agency pays well enough that I can pay someone to sit on their ass here while you run the ranch. Plus more detective work is done sitting in front of a computer than out on the road anyway.” He’d proven to be decent at it, too.
“You into the internet stuff?”
“Enough to catch a few criminals.” When he’d gone back to work, he’d transferred from homicide to the cyber division. There, he was less likely to screw up. Less likely to kill another fifteen-year-old kid.
Pete rubbed his chin. “I heard there’s a lot of porn on there.”
Clay shot the old man a frown. “I promise I won’t be looking at the porn.”
“Party pooper.” Pete leaned back on his boots. “That reminds me, the DAR gals are bringing dinner tonight.”
Clay studied his sign to make sure it was still flashing. It was. “Who the hell are the DAR girls? And why does porn remind you of them?”
“Uh, it didn’t. Not really. I mean, they’re women. And DAR means the Daughters of the American Revolution.”
“Why are they bringing us dinner?”
A chicken-shit grin spread across Pete’s lips. “They’re coming to size up the newest bachelor in town. There’s a lot of single gals here looking for a husband.”
“Just tell them no thank you.”
“Whoa,” Pete said. “Slow down, Buster. You ain’t telling them nothin’ until you tries their pies. Hell, I’d marry one of them if they’d have me. Well, anyone but Old Lady Johnson. That lady’s meaner than a snake”
“It’s still a no. I don’t want any mother hens pecking around me looking for a son-in-law.”
“Some of their daughters aren’t that ugly.”
“The answer is still no! Besides, I’m meeting someone for a drink at Bo’s Bar tonight.”
“Huh, what’s her name?”
“It’s a he. An old friend I went to the police academy with.” Frankly, Clay’d had enough women, willing and accommodating women, this last year in an effort to forget his wife. Then about three months back he’d suddenly realized he wasn’t even enjoying sex anymore. Well, he’d enjoyed it, but afterwards the regret was more than the pleasure. And frankly, he was tired of regretting things.
Right now, all he wanted to focus on was making Dolly, Texas his home.
Chapter 2
When Savanna came back from peeing, Leonardo had delivered Bethany a margarita and Savanna a Shirley Temple. Jennifer filled them in about Charles’ younger model. Then she explained her plan.
“It’s been available all along. I don’t know why women haven’t picked up on it. There are statistics of divorce rates in almost all careers. I mean we all know someone like movie stars marry and divorce willy-nilly, but who would have guessed that a bartender, or a roofer, would have such a high divorce rate. We should be looking for funeral directors, or podiatrists, or clergymen. And then there’s other data, too. You don’t want one who is rich or tall or bald. Or who came from a broken home. They tend to follow in their parents’ footsteps. Oh, and . . . he needs to have . . . a small male part.”
Bethany had just downed her first sip of margarita and spewed it all over the table. Jennifer handed her napkins to wipe off the drool.
“What part?” Bethany asked behind the napkin.
“You know…”
“Penis?” Bethany asked. “You can say it. It’s the official name.”
Savanna chased her cherry around her glass with her straw. “You’re joking, right?”
Jennifer frowned. “I’ve never been more serious in my life. A woman can almost guarantee a good man by checking off all the right boxes. Isn’t it time we grew up and stopped measuring a guy by how big of a diamond he can buy, or the size of his joystick? This is about finding someone to share your life with. To have a family with.”
“Wait.” Bethany said. “Are you saying you’re looking for a short, hairy, poor, small-penised funeral director?”
“Joystick?” Savanna snickered. “But hey, I have to tell you, Mark’s the best husband in the world, and the only category of yours he fits into is that he isn’t bald. Believe me, his joystick isn’t lacking.”
Jennifer exhaled. “I’m not implying he’s going to divorce you. I’m saying I’m tired of playing the normal odds. I’m saying there’s more to life than what’s in a guy’s pants. And I didn’t say poor. He needs to be middle class. And he can be an agricultural engineer, or an optometrist. I think anyone in a career with less than a ten percent divorce rate is fairly safe. Maybe even twelve. But how do I go about meeting one of those men?”
“That’s easy,” Bethany said.
Jennifer internally sighed. She’d known her friends would understand. “How?”
“You pretend someone you loved died, go to all the local funeral homes getting quotes. If he isn’t short, you…” she reached over and ruffled Jennifer’s hair, “check to see if his hair is real, then sneak into his office and take a peek at his checkbook. If all’s good, offer him a fracking blow job!” She held up both arms as if she was about to say amen at church service. “Are you freaking nuts?”
“No, what I am is almost thirty-one. I want two kids. My clock’s ticking. I’m done playing the field. I need a sure thing.” Jennifer felt that knot rise in her throat again.
Bethany continued to stare. “Answer me this...”
“No. Do not interrogate me,” Jennifer snapped.
“I’m just asking. Are you even upset that Charles cheated on you?”
“Of course, I am. I wouldn’t be searching for a replacement if he hadn’t.”
Savanna again poked at her Shirley Temple with her straw and locked gazes with Bethany. “Oh, this is bad.”
“What’s bad?” Jennifer asked.
Bethany continued to look at Savanna. “Didn’t I tell you I suspected this?”
“Suspected what?” Jennifer leaned in.
Bethany’s lawyer gaze shot to Jennifer. “You never even loved Charles. You’ve been settling all this time so you could create your warped vision of happily-ever-after.”
“There is nothing warped about happily-ever-after. And I . . . I did love Charles. I just stopped loving him when he t
old me he’d been screwing someone ten years younger than me.” She noticed then that she still had his ring on and tried to take it off. It caught on her knuckle, and she stopped. Charles had sworn he would take it back to have it upsized. He’d never done it.
“That’s not how it works!” Bethany said. “If you love something, you get hurt. You get mad. Your heart breaks. You don’t immediately start looking for someone safer with a small penis!”
“It’s the penis that’s disturbing you, isn’t it?” Jennifer snapped.
“Duh! But that’s not the point.” Bethany shook her head. “Don’t you remember what you felt when Todd called off your wedding?”
“Todd was four years ago.”
“Doesn’t matter. You cried for a month. You tried to get him back. Then we hid a dead fish in his spare tire and hired a male prostitute to knock on his door when he had a girl over. That’s normal. This. Is. Not. Normal.”
Jennifer felt assaulted. “Why do you have to do this?”
“Do what?” Bethany asked.
“Use logic. I don’t need that!” She swatted off a few tears from her cheeks.
“So, you admit it,” Bethany said. “You never loved Charles.”
Jennifer held up her hand. They didn’t understand. No one understood. They hadn’t had the perfect family and lost it.
“I did.” The lie crawled up her throat. “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t love, yet. I cared . . . and it was growing. I respected him enough that I wanted a family with him. I didn’t care if it wasn’t the traditional ooey-gooey romance. I wanted a partner in life, and it could have been him! That’s more important than . . . than romantic love.”
Bethany frowned. “We’re your partners.”
“That’s not enough. I love you both so much. But I need this. And I need your support.”
“I thought I told you not to call me!”
Bundy tightened his hold on the phone. He really hated this employer. Frankly, he hated a lot of his employers because the majority were rich snobs. He’d learned long ago that money didn’t make someone smart.
Not that his poor clients were any smarter. If they were, they’d be taking care of their own businesses instead of paying him to do it. So, in a way, he was grateful for stupid people.
But this guy raked over his nerves like glass. It was the child abuse thing. Mitchell was like Bundy’s father. He picked on people smaller than he was. But Mitchell was rich, and Bundy was accustomed to living in a certain lifestyle.
“I wouldn’t be calling you, but I’m leaving in five minutes, and you still haven’t told me what you want.”
He heard the man breathing hard, as if making a decision was some kind of workout.
“If you can’t convince her to back off, just do it.”
“Got it.” Bundy started to hang up.
“Ted?” the man’s voice rang out.
“Yeah?”
“Swear to me this isn’t going to come back on me.”
“I don’t mess up,” Bundy said. He’d found the perfect location—no cell service—there wasn’t even a house or business open for several miles. No witnesses.
“Then why were you in prison?”
“Don’t worry. I learn from my mistakes.” He’d been solving people’s problems for the majority of his adult life. Even in prison, he’d done a few jobs for other inmates who hadn’t had the balls to do it for themselves.
What else was a guy with a name like “Ted Bundy” supposed to do? He blamed that on his old man, too. Not that he’d named him after the serial killer. The famous Bundy hadn’t been arrested until 1974. Ted had been born in 1972. But his dad had given him his name. As if having a son made him happy.
His dad hadn’t given a shit about him. His dad could rest in hell. The fact that Ted had sent him there still felt good.
Ted hung up and walked out of the hotel. It was almost dark. He preferred working in the dark. But when he got into the car, he sensed something was wrong. The car felt uneven. He got out, and when he saw the flat tire he let out a string of curses.
Damn it. He was going to be late.
Jennifer left in plenty of time to go home, get her portfolio, change her clothes, and have a little extra time to find the B&B. David Brockman had warned her a GPS wouldn’t pick it up, but he gave detailed directions. Unfortunately, this was her fourth time down FM 2020, and she only had five minutes or she’d be late. Where the hell was Cattail Road?
Her mistake. She should’ve made the appointment in the daytime, so she’d have been sure to find it. Then again, David had assured her it wasn’t that hard to find.
Maybe in the daylight, but it was pitch dark now. It felt isolated, but kind of pretty, too. The stars seemed extra bright. She pulled over to text Mr. Brockman, but found she had no service. Crap.
When she passed the “A Piece at a Time Junkyard” sign for the third time, she decided if she still didn’t find Cattail Road, she’d stop on the way back and ask for directions.
She drove back another mile, slowly, looking for the road. Still missing it, she turned around, hoping whoever ran the junkyard could help her.
A car suddenly pulled up behind her. At least she didn’t feel so isolated just then. No sooner did she think that and the car started tailgating her.
Okay. Not nice.
She sped up. The car, practically kissing her bumper, sped up too. And then it did it. It bumped her car. A hard bump. And nothing felt accidental about it. Her thoughts ran to Savanna’s words. If that guy can hurt a three-year-old, he wouldn’t have any qualms--”
Heart instantly racing, blood rushing, lungs shrinking, she put the pedal to the metal.
The car’s high beams raced after her. It rammed her. Again. And again.
Her car skidded off the road into a ditch. She tried driving out, but the wheels spun. Shit!
Shit! Shit!
The car passed her, but then turned back around. The headlights went bright and almost blinded her.
She grabbed her phone, only to remember the dead zone.
Shit!
She glanced around and saw some lights behind her to the right. The junkyard. The sign was no longer flashing, but there were still lights on in a building behind the gate. Please God, let someone be there. Please God, let the gate be open.
Please God, don’t let me die.
She bolted out of her car and took off.
She heard a car door slam. She heard footsteps racing behind her. Heavy, mean footsteps thudding against the hard ground. Footsteps getting closer.
And closer.
She ran hard. Fast. Didn’t breathe. She ran like her life depended on it.
Because she was pretty damn certain it did.
Clay, standing under the spray of water, had just sudsed up his hair when he heard it. Crack. Pop. Squeal. Sounded like his front door slamming open, followed by a squeal from a dying squirrel. A feminine dying squirrel.
“Help me!” The two words came out half-screamed, half-breathless.
What the hell?
He bolted out of the shower, went to grab a towel, only to realize he’d left the towel and clean clothes he’d brought from the house in the bag beside his desk.
He tore out for the tiny bedroom, reached for his dirty jeans on the twin bed, but another scream, more desperate than the first echoed from the front office. Then a loud slam, bam, crash followed that sounded like someone had just broken down the door. Never mind that he hadn’t locked it.
The screamer must have.
Someone must be after her.
He snatched his gun, also on the lumpy mattress, and took off bare-assed and baffled.
As he cut into the hall, he heard another scream and a clunk as if someone was being slammed against a wall.
And yup, that was exactly what was happening. And that someone was a dark-haired woman small enough to be described as petite, and the man slamming her was a big guy who needed to be taught a lesson. Clay’s gut knotted.
“Sto
p right there!” Clay held out his gun.
Big and bald guy swung around, and when he did he pulled out a weapon. A .45 if Clay saw it right.
The minuscule increment of time stopped. Guns drawn, they stood there measuring each other. The guy’s size, a good three-hundred pounder, gave Clay a start. No doubt Clay’s nakedness did the same for the man.
“Drop it!” Clay spoke in his official-sounding police tone. His finger on the trigger tightened, but goddamn it, he didn’t know if he could pull it. The last time he had, he’d killed a kid.
Not an innocent kid, but a kid nevertheless.
Unfortunately, the big guy didn’t seem to have a problem. He lifted his gun. Clay dove behind the desk, and when he hit the floor, his weapon slipped from his grip and skidded across the room. The man fired his gun, and the bullet found a home in the wall.
The woman screamed.
Shit!
“What’s your problem?” Clay yelled to keep this asswipe’s attention on him and not the woman. He rolled to the edge of the desk and peered out cautiously. Big dude was focused on the other side the desk. The woman saw Clay, then he and she both saw the big guy aim his gun toward the desk.
“You’re my problem,” the guy spit out.
“No!” The brunette screamed and bolted forward and jumped onto the man’s back. Her legs barely wrapped around his middle. She latched one arm around his neck, and with her free hand scratched at the man’s face.
It wasn’t the best move, but it was the distraction Clay needed. He shot up and grabbed the guy’s wrist, pointing the gun away.
“Run,” he screamed at the woman still piggy-backing the guy.
But like most women Clay knew, she didn’t listen. If anything, she hung on tighter.
The asswipe, unable to see due to her hand and nails in his face, reached back with his free hand, grabbed her by her hair and flung her across the room. She flew like a rag doll and crashed against the wall. Clay saw her land, limp and possibly unconscious. Furious at himself for not shooting the bastard earlier, a wave of rage washed over him.